


The Rhythm Of A Stranger's Skin

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortal man is a strange beast. They have little bearing on Jack’s thoughts, Jack’s feelings. They are nothing more than ants scurrying around on the surface of the earth, at the mercy of nature’s deadly humour. Coward attracts a most unlikely suitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rhythm Of A Stranger's Skin

**Author's Note:**

> So, this follows on from Jack Frost but it works well enough on its own. Much, much love to unsettledink for the read through and help with plot and grammar/stylistic issues. Hugs galore for the_me09 for her encouragement ♥

One night, when the moon is bloated and the winter chill creeps into your very bones, Jack Frost rests his bony fingers on the streets of London. That is, he would have if he had fingers. Indeed, if he had a body at all it would be tall and thin with a smile of callousness on his pointed face. But he doesn’t have a body. And he certainly doesn’t have a smile! Ah, but he does have _breath_ , and it is with that chill wind that he coats the ground in gleaming snow, each individual flake carefully formed, carefully constructed, his signature on every single one.

This is his task; winter is his paradise. When summer is in the midst of her dance he slumbers, and when she rests her head on her downy pillow Jack rises. It is the way of the world.

And yet, this night, Jack is... ill at ease. There is something in the air, some old magic, dark and heavy, that at once repulses and entices. It is a misty trail of faint smoke, one that he follows with curious intent despite that taste on his nonexistent tongue, that taste that warns him not to continue.

What he stumbles on is a most delicious sight.

Mortal man is a strange beast. They have little bearing on Jack’s thoughts, Jack’s feelings. They are nothing more than ants scurrying around on the surface of the earth, at the mercy of nature’s deadly humour.

Nature has quite the acerbic wit.

Never before has man fascinated Jack so. Never before has he looked upon them with such interest, enraptured. Who is this creature making love in Jack’s bitter white creation? Who is this beguiling thing with pale flesh and bright, ruddy cheeks, head tipped back to bare his throat in exultation?

Jack falls, and falls hard.

He can’t help himself, but then, who could? Jack wraps the beauty in a sharp wind; a biting caress, until he shivers and his lips turn blue. For five long minutes he rests upon the snow and Jack keeps him company, presses damp kisses to his throat and murmurs nonsense in his ears.

But the beauty is only mortal, and if he is to stay in Jack’s arms then he shall surely freeze to death. A dead body is not like a live one, cold when it should be warm, still when it should be full of animated vigour. Jack does not want this one to die. So he gives him a little nudge, a gust of wind, a slight pressure, and when he stumbles to his feet Jack nods in approval.

The beauty leaves. Such is life.

Jack mourns him.

He mourns, and it is a sweet pain.

But, as it turns out, it is only the first of many encounters.

-

Christmas has passed and the merriment of New Year has dissipated, leaving Coward bereft of festive excitement. Despite being an adult of a certain age – one must not ask, it’s quite rude – there is something about December that lifts his weary spirit and now that it is over... well, what else is there to look forward to? Bills! Papers! Orders! How on earth Henry manages to run the country is beyond him. Even as Deputy Prime Minister there are a multitude of things for him to do, so many things and so little time to do them in.

As it happens, it leaves little time to spend with Henry, as well.

Forgive him for feeling somewhat bitter about that, yes?

January is colder still. The bedroom window is jammed shut as he tries to open it, wishing for fresh air in the stifling atmosphere of the bedroom; still strange and new, large and empty and unfamiliar. Henry has long since departed from their bed and Coward feels that loss deep in the hollow of his chest; a low, constant ache.

Henry has his own duties to attend to. As does Coward.

With a final shove he feels the wood give, the window opening stiffly with a sharp crack. Breathing in fresh air – or as fresh as it can possibly be in London, residing in Downing Street or otherwise – the cold does not rush in to greet him as it would do any other day. Indeed, it’s almost as if it pauses before it slides wetly over his face, perhaps peppering him in sweet kisses.

He must remember to take his morning tea before he prepares to face the day; it seems his head is full of fanciful notions without it.

Henry would laugh at him.

“My Lord?”

A young maid bobs a nervous curtsy, a silver plated tray held tightly in her trembling hands. The delicate bone china wobbles and for a moment Coward fears the frightened rabbit will drop his morning tea and wouldn’t that be a travesty? He sighs. Must he do everything himself? “Allow me-“

He doesn’t make it.

The tea pot spills, dousing his hand in scalding hot water and the exclamation of pain that passes his lips is swallowed up by the maid’s startled, devastated cry. “Oh, oh, I’m so very sorry! Let me-“

It’s a strange pain, a scald. Coward brushes off her simpering apologies – irritating as they are – rushes to the sink to run the cold tap over sore, reddened flesh. He hisses, for although it soothes at first the pain only intensifies, escalating into an insistent throb.

Wrapping his hand in a damp cloth the bumbling maid is still wringing her hands when he enters the bedroom once more, eyes bright with unshed tears. Ah, but she knows, does she not? That her twitchiness has caused ill to a Lord, to the Deputy Prime Minister himself and her working career is ruined.

“Your service is terminated forthwith,” Coward murmurs tightly. “Please vacate the premises at once.”

The maid bursts into tears.

How unprofessional.

-

It isn’t until three days later that Coward discovers the poor, unfortunate maid had slipped and fell on the ice, cracking her skull open like an egg on the pavement.

There is a pang of remorse within, a brief moment where he thinks perhaps he had been too harsh.

It passes soon enough.

-

“Lord Barnsley informs me of an uprising in Bristol,” Coward says as he glances idly out at the world passing them by. “How long will it take for them to realise the futility of such actions, I wonder?” The carriage is luxurious, big enough to fit eight quite comfortably and yet, he and Henry sit side by side, thighs pressed close together.

Henry hums, papers strewn across his lap, jostled by the distinct play of wheels over smooth cobblestones. “Quite. It’s inevitable that the peasants will revolt.” His knee nudges Coward’s gently, a subtle show of affection as his eyes roam the spread of bills and orders and requisition forms with feigned interest. “All they require is a strong hand, Nicholas, and they will fall in line. That, or be disposed of.”

Warmth spreads through Coward’s chest, lips twitching into a mischievous smile. There is something to be said of Henry’s confidence; his skills in leadership unmatched, practically legendary. Compared to the corrupt government of old Henry rules with a strong but fair hand, and though their new regime is in swaddling clothes it is apparent that such methods undoubtedly _work_. Oh, there had been terror at first, and an underground resistance had quickly formed but the threat had been neutralised quickly and efficiently.

Every now and then a group will surface proclaiming Henry a tyrant, wishing to return England to the old ways. Such groups are infinitesimal in importance. Are a joke, even. The masses, the everyday folk in their everyday lives of dull and drab and discord... they accepted, after a time. Such is the way of the English; carrying on despite it all.

It is one of their more positive qualities.

Sliding the carriage window open Coward tilts his head back and closes his eyes. The uneven rocking is soothing enough, if one is used to it, and Henry’s warmth is as much a comfort as any. It doesn’t take much to relax; to even his breathing, to allow the cool winter wind to touch his face, his neck.

For a moment Coward drifts.

His body becomes loose, languid. The wind, gentle and almost loving as it embraces him, feels pleasant. A particularly subtle gust twists around the back of his neck and makes him shudder, slipping down his collar to caress his back. Gooseflesh rises. His heart bombs loud in his chest. His skin flushes, blood rushing to the surface as slowly, gradually, cool, damp air kisses his flesh to the point of arousal.

It’s electrifying. Each gust of wind is akin to a finger; smearing cool moisture over his lips, tracing the lines and contours of his face as would a lover. It spreads, expanding, a gentle pressure that slides down the centre of his body and rests, heavenly, on the swell of his confined excitement.

Warm breath against his ear startles him from the icy stupor and Coward gasps, Henry’s hand heavy on his thigh. “Have I been neglecting you, Nicholas?” Henry murmurs, and there is amusement in his voice.

The wind becomes biting, sharp. It whips against Coward’s cheek as if to gain his attention. It fails.

“Perhaps,” Coward turns his head, brushes his lips against Henry’s with a lusty purr. “If you would be so kind...” He gestures downwards, and Henry’s eyes darken. Message received.

“Such cheek.” The pressure of Henry’s palm is divine and his kisses as sweet as they are bruising. Coward trembles, body a taut string, his lover pushing him higher and higher and when he comes his cry of pleasure is swallowed by Henry’s devouring mouth.

Henry holds him as the trembling eases, brushes kisses against flushed cheeks. It may not be a sultry afternoon in their bed, but with how busy Henry is these days... such stolen moments are precious to Coward. More precious than Henry will ever realise. The wind stings his eyes. Henry slides the window closed.

And yet, as Henry tips his head back and sucks a bruise onto his throat, Coward can’t help but wonder what that is; that strange taste in the air.

The taste of something bitter.

...Or something angry.

-

It lingers, that flavour on the tip of Coward’s tongue. Oh, it’s not always present... but when it is it’s almost overpowering, so full of rage and disappointment that a sucker punch to the face would cause less pain. Hiding his discomfort is pointless; to Henry he is practically transparent, and as Henry himself cannot smell or taste it when present... Coward begins to believe he might be better off in Bedlam.

It causes something of a rift between them.

It’s when they argue that it is strongest. Bitter and sour like old, stale water. They argue, and it’s electric between the both of them, rippling with amusement and mischief. Coward clenches his fists, knuckles bone-white. The glass vase shatters. Water soaks into the carpet. He exhales, and his breath fogs in front of him.

Coward says things he will later regret.

Henry doesn’t come home that night.

-

The next morning he receives a gift; a wilted forget-me-not, frozen solid. And yet, it doesn’t melt, isn’t even cold, and merely rests upon smooth mahogany, unassuming. It is a strange gift, for Coward cares little for flowers, beautiful though it is. From Henry, he assumes, though the right side of their bed is cold to the touch; he hasn’t been home all night.

When Henry finally does come home, clothes rumpled and eyes bloodshot from spending all night poring over ancient texts, he brings with him a tight apology and kisses that curl Coward’s toes, hard and deep. It isn’t until hours later, when the fire has cooled within and Henry’s eyes are beginning to droop that Coward mentions the frozen forget-me-not, still lying upon the desk.

Henry only quirks an eyebrow, quizzical, and cards his fingers through Coward’s hair.

He’s never bought Coward flowers.

-

He has no voice, no eyes or hands to touch his love. No body to press against the warm expanse of Nicholas’ back. He has nothing but the sigh of the wind and the tender touch of snow and frost and ice at his fingertips, and it isn’t enough. Will never be enough, never, to satisfy this yearning within.

Oh, to embrace him, to love him, to kiss him.

There is but one who stands in his way; a man of great power, but a man nonetheless. Man is fickle, man is _weak_ and all it would take is one little _push_ and Henry Blackwood would be out of the way. Perhaps a neat little swim in the Thames will do him some good?

Perhaps then Nicholas will see Jack for the indomitable force of nature that he is.

-

It’s a blustery day in mid February; the clouds overheard dark and swollen with an oncoming downpour. To those not willing to heed the warnings it could mean certain disaster, if caught in it, and yet there are two men who face it unheeded, too busy to think of something so mundane as a quick change in weather.

It’s rare that they get any time together, least of all alone. The time for talk of work has long since passed, though the evidence of their labour is tucked inside a soft leather case, the strap of which is slung haphazardly over Cowards shoulder, a comforting weight as he walks beside Henry, the wind whipping hair into his face.

“The Grand,” Henry says suddenly, and there is a tightness to his face that belies discomfort. “Tonight. I’ve made reservations for dinner.”

Coward blinks, utterly thrown. It’s a romantic gesture, for sure, though he certainly doesn’t mind taking their evening meal in the study whilst Henry works. Indeed, there is much for them to do, for Henry becoming Prime Minister was only the first step in a long journey.

And yet... his chest warms. There have been many public appearances at charity gala’s and the like, but a private meal, just the two of them? The very idea of it is enough to make him feel quite light-headed.

Three years and still hopelessly, uselessly in love. Some might call that a miracle.

“And they say you’re a tyrant,” Coward muses, lacing his fingers briefly with Henry’s. His lover says not a word, stoic, though he squeezes Coward’s hand, gentle.

Thunder rumbles above, ominous. A fat, wet drop of rain lands on Coward’s cheek. There is a great pressure around them, shockingly intense, and he can’t help but marvel at how soon the storm has come, wrapping them both in a gale so intense that all of a sudden he cannot even see, cannot even think, a sharp, piercing ringing in his ears.

The strap of the satchel breaks. The papers, as important to their cause as the very word of Henry, scatter in the wind.

Static crackles on his tongue, the taste of copper. Despair is heavy in Coward’s gut but smug satisfaction dances over his fingertips, a teasing seduction by something unreal, incorporeal, something _strange_.

Henry cancels the dinner reservation.

-

He doesn’t know what makes him change his mind. Truly, he doesn’t, and though his hatred of Henry Blackwood is palpable, the very thought of causing Nicholas harm instantly gives Jack pause.

He loves so deeply, so warmly, that even killing the competition is near impossible.

For a brief moment he fears what Nicholas has done to him, twisted him, reshaped him, turned him into a creature that _feels_ , feels intrigue and hatred and jealousy in so many ways.

He fears. But he loves Nicholas Coward more.

-

Charity events are ruined due to freak rainstorms. The drains swell and burst, spilling putrid sewer water onto the already dirty streets. Sudden drops in temperature cause hundreds of the sick and weak to die, freezing to death in their sleep.

And through all of this, Coward is being followed. He’s almost certain of it. Wherever he may go, it follows, some kind of ghostly presence that touches him with reverence. His paranoia increases. He is being watched, near-constant, and his nerves are shot. There are times, when Henry is asleep beside him, that Coward feels the unearthly eyes of some lusty apparition upon him. It does more than watch. It wraps him up in a chill embrace, cups his cheek in a damp hand and practically _sings_ ; like wind whistling through the hollows of a dead tree. It holds him as he drifts off to sleep, holds him close, holds him tight.

When morning comes and Henry’s breath is hot against the back of his neck, Coward thinks perhaps it was nothing more than a dream, albeit one that visits often.

Perhaps, though his fingers are always stiff with cold, frost collecting on his eyelashes.

He says not a word to Henry, positive he is going mad.

-

Jack’s focus on London is apparent. The north is experiencing a particularly mild winter, though they are not free from the chill regardless of Jack’s distraction. But of course, one cannot truly affect the cruel touch of nature, not even him. He merely wraps his bony fingers around it and _manipulates_ , shapes and moulds and places his signature deep within the belly of frost and snowflake and rain drop.

His work, these past few months, has been decidedly... unprofessional.

He is the first to admit it. His infatuation with Nicholas has escalated, having reached that rocky plateau and climbed higher still; past the clouds and out into the far-flung reaches of space.

However, there is but one other who requires his attention. Henry Blackwood is an obstacle, to be sure, and though he loathes him for having what Jack cannot... sometimes one must compromise to get what they want.

The very thought of it leaves him feeling bitter.

Compromise has led him to this very moment.

Trapped.

The ritual is old, dark magic. Its touch had left Jack reeling; is reeling still, even now, seduced into the confines of the circle and held there by a power so delicious that when he flexes the very molecules in the air it sparks with vicious electricity. Jack rumbles, irritated. It burns, yes, but he yearns for its dark contingence.

“I’m astounded that a being such as yourself exists,” Henry says, curious, and his eyes are black and sunken, body thrumming with the very same ability that holds Jack captive. It makes Henry’s skin appear sallow, his chest heaving as he struggles to take in oxygen. He is aroused, each and every muscle a taut string.

A channel, then. Henry is the gateway, its opening, and it pours through him in waves. It is, Jack reflects, quite beautiful.

“I’m aware of your _infatuation_ , of course,” Henry continues, “and I must say, I’m amused. That you think you could capture his attention, his love, is frankly laughable. That you wish to take him from my side... now that, my friend, is bold. Very bold indeed.”

The air contained in the circle whirls with energy. Hot and cold air collides, spins anti-clockwise, forms a miniature whirlwind and within, Jack Frost is an icy shadow. It appears he has underestimated Nicholas’ lover, been distracted by skin as pale as the snow Jack manipulates so carefully, and a devious charm. It is a mistake he won’t repeat.

Henry laughs and Jack recoils, for it there is a promise within; the promise of Jack’s destruction. “You made a mistake, yes, but I am not without mercy. One night. One night with Nicholas and I, and you will cease your simpering courtship, or face the consequences. Think carefully on your answer.”

Jack pauses. The air ripples as he considers; looks upon Henry as one would look upon an equal, though still an adversary regardless. He presses against the barrier containing him once more and an almighty gust of wind rips through the antechamber, low and deep, a gentle roar.

He subsides, conceding defeat.

His adversary is worthy.

-

When Coward wakes there is the taste of copper on his tongue and the pungent smell of lightning in the air. It lingers in the darkness like a warm and heady blanket, makes his head feel light and his limbs loose and heavy. The silk sheets beneath his naked body slide against his skin, cool, raising gooseflesh as the deep haze of sleep departs.

Henry tilts his head to the right, captures Coward’s lips in a bruising kiss. His teeth bite deep into plush flesh, breaking the surface with vicious passion. Blood only enhances the sweet slip-slide of lips and tongue and he moans, breathless, caught in an entangled web. Henry pulls away, lips smeared red and Coward keens, tries to follow.

“Henry-”

Long, elegant fingers trace the arc of Coward’s throat and the thumb presses, harsh and brief, over the vulnerable hollow; a sweet pressure that makes him gasp and tremble, eyes gone glassy with desire. Henry hums, satisfied. “Hush. I have a gift for you.”

Coward’s body, flushed with arousal and excitement, trembles as cool fingers trace the underside of his feet. He huffs out a laugh, lips twitching as his toes curl, almost too ticklish to endure. “What- how are you doing this?” They wander, those icy fingers flattening out into damp incorporeal palms that rub his thighs soothingly.

Bemused, Henry worries Coward’s split lip, smearing the appendages with vital fluid. “Not I,” he says, as he licks his fingers clean, “but ah, a _friend_ , you could say.”

A pause, and the rumble of thunder is clearly heard through the open window. A flash of lightning in the darkness and a faint touch to his hip, a touch that drags over silvery scars as if in reverence and Henry kisses the breath from his lungs once more, holding Coward’s head still as he ravishes his mouth.

But who is this so-called friend? There is no-one present and yet he can feel their presence keenly. Feel it, so very tangible, that if he were to close his eyes he would swear there is another.

Coward’s body veritably thrums with sensation. It is chill pressure, this touch, makes his nipples peak and ache, makes them throb in time with his heartbeat when they’re pinched with frost. The moan that works its way past his lips is high and desperate as his fingers dig in to the hard muscle of Henry’s back, crescent moons that well with crimson, staining his fingers red.

This juxtaposition, of heat and frost, is a gradual torture. Henry’s mouth and the smooth, even caress of wind against sensitive skin is rapturous and Coward arches into every touch. It doesn’t cease. They push him higher, stroke the blaze within his gut and the first swipe of damp breath on the head of his cock is electric; pleasure that makes his toes curl and his stomach clench, pleasure so white hot it’s like ice.

“Why so quiet, Nicholas? It isn’t like you to be so... reticent.” Henry’s arousal is hot against his hip and Coward shudders, chest hitching as his fingers flex, lips twitching into a smile as a finger flicks the head of Henry’s arousal as if he isn’t a shuddering mess himself. The answering moan is enough to make him glow from the inside out.

“Does that answer your question?”

Biting hard into the flesh of Coward’s shoulder, Henry only purrs.

The pain. Oh good god, the pain, he can’t think straight. His hands, wrapping around the length of Henry’s cock, shudder to a stop, lost in a place where Henry’s teeth sink down deeper and invisible fingers stroke languidly over his perineum before easing their way inside. The stretch and burn is all encompassing, delicious in its intensity and Coward can only sob, split open and vulnerable.

A soft hum in his ear, cool with something like ardent appreciation, and when that pressure slides ever deeper and nudges his prostate he’s gone; mindless and a slave to them both.

-

It fucks him until his throat is raw from screaming. Until his thighs are shaking and his breathing is ragged, sweat pooling in the hollow of his navel. When he comes he’s torn to shreds from the inside out, broken and vulnerable keening for more, always more.

Hot digits slink into his mouth, slick and salty with his own release.

After, Henry licks his way into Coward’s mouth, when he’s languid and blissful, and fingers him to a second climax.

-

He savours the heaviness of Henry on his tongue, the slide of his cock into Coward’s throat and he chokes, grips Henry’s hips and tries to take it but never can, too much, too hard and he’s drooling, pre-cum and spit spilling down his chin. The taste is all he’s ever wanted, ever craved and Henry is ravenous, doesn’t stop until he pulls out of Coward’s mouth and comes all over his face, hot and gasping.

His tongue flicks out to catch the pearlescent beads on his lips and he closes his eyes, feels a wetness on his face as if the very air itself is tasting the evidence of Henry’s desire.

Heat tightens in his belly; a smoky haze of want and need and _have_.

If he’s not careful it might very well burn him to a cinder.

-

It’s only when he’s on his belly, fucked out, loose and pliable, that it occurs to Coward that he doesn’t even know the name of the creature ramming into him with nothing more than incomprehensible pressure, doesn’t even care, moans breathlessly as sensitive flesh is stretched further by Henry’s slick probing fingers and then his cock, choking on desire.

Doesn’t even care that he’s come so many times he can’t anymore, just buries his face in the pillow and breathes, slow and deep and even, takes it until his eyes droop and he can take it no longer.

He drifts off to sleep to the sound of enraptured moans, exhausted.

-

Morning, and Henry is a warm comfort behind him, nose pressed to the crook of Coward’s neck. Henry slumbers still, heavy, with that faint snore that follows a passionate night. They’re alone, and it’s a strange thing to be without that near-constant presence, that brush of ghostly kisses on his face.

And yet... something of a relief.

Coward smiles and stretches his limbs. The twinge of pain in his lower back is simply a pleasant reminder as he settles back into Henry’s arms, the sun warm on his face.

Spring has come, and the snow is melting.


End file.
